Casio Cassienda
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As night stretched over the Bjorn farmstead and an evening fire kindled in the hearth, the hounds began to stir. They growled low, hackles lifted and ears split back against their heads. The farmers exchanged frowns, pausing in the after dinner cleanup. Creases of worry wormed onto their brows, and the eldest nodded, loosed a heavy sigh.
The farm, situated on the outskirts of the hamlet of Belfalus which marked itself near the southern peninsula of the Allir Reach on most modern maps (much to the frustration of certain cartographers who prefer its locale specified as bayou-side of the Allir coastal lowland), boasted a number of fenced, open fields and pasture for livestock. Under its wide purview, with consideration for the families working the land, it occasioned notice for the dogs to perk at distant noise. They were familiar with the neighbors, no strangers to the infrequent foot traffic that meandered past or the steady clop of hoovebeat and wagontread. Indeed, the Elder Bjorn often bemoaned the gentle hearts of his pets—how worthless they were in dissuading unwanted guests! Yet did they stir on this particular moonless eve.
The leathery farmer lit a candle and donned his slippers, fastening a carving knife to his belt and gripping the haft of his walking stick to chest. He swallowed hard before nudging the door open, bumbling his first step onto the porch. The missus and younger kids remained indoors, peering out at him from the windows, curiosity and apprehension gluing them to his back.
"Damn mutts," he said, licking his lips as the wooden deck creaked beneath his weight, "best not be jumping at shadows, you hear?" He made for the fields, the rumble of hostile growling his primary guide, eyes flicking wildly whenever a wilted stalk of barley swished in the evening breeze. Otherwise, silence accompanied his survey, a shiver that iced his spine.
One of his sons had left shortly after dinner, hedging about some thatch needing mending at the hamlet. The Elder Bjorn had thought the boy coy, playing sly in cover of a tryst with one of the cobbler's kids. Perhaps the boy made it back early, kicked a rock to rattle the dogs' nerves. He lost himself in such fancies, finding it preferable to the dread that whispered from perception's edge.
A smell broke his reverie: unwashed flesh, rotted leather, musky refuse. The farmer's breath hitched in his throat, his dog barked sharp. A man lay in a heap before him, crumpled in the fields, the tangle of his limbs forming a near perfect ring in the browning grass. The Eldest Bjorn dropped his walking stick and rushed to kneel before the man, shouting back to the house for the boys to come help carry him in.
They found a beggar in their fields. The man was a shamble of skin and bone, flesh drawn taut over chest and stomach. A skein of matted hair and a tri-colored beard that could not decide if it wished to be brown, or gray, or black occluded a pair of hollowed cheeks and purpled eyes. Swathed in frailty, bruises welted up along the lank length of him, his legs appearing scarce capable of supporting what little weight he had. More concerning, the back of his head was split, a wicked gash from when he collapsed, and even among the rotted cloth he reeked thick of blood.
In the ensuant hours, the Bjorns bathed and dressed the man's wounds, patching up a great many cuts and swollen feet in an effort to provide some meager comfort. They threw a kettle over the hearth, heated bone broth and tea and warmed milk for him to drink; they cradled his head and aided him in getting down this unconscious meal. Only in the morning did he wake, speech slurred with a foreign kiss upon his tongue. Unable to make sense of his speech, and he incapable of scraping meaning from the depths of his broken skull, their conversation was left in much the same tatters as the beggar had arrived.
Another day passed before he managed to thank them. This he did profusely, entreating them to let him rise and be off once more into the wilds. This they could not allow.
Thus did the beggar winter with the family, regaining some small vitality through the watery broth and hard bread leavened with wood dust they offered him. Meats and cheeses he refused, insisting with passioned sincerity that they pay little mind to his presence. Their kindness warmed him plenty, he'd say, and he could not beggar more than an honest day's equity. Through it all, he gave high praise to their hospitality, admitting one snowed in morning that he truly felt a kinship with the farmers. He cracked a hesitant, bashful smile then, and it bled true beauty onto his once dirtied face. With the year's first thaw, he shaved that hideous beard and let the Elder Bjorn shear his unkempt hair (after washing it thoroughly in lye and rinsing it to a semblance of cleanliness).
When spring harried drought and disease to the farm, the beggar began to question why.
A magistrate dead, the Baron of Chain's in a fury; three taxmen gone, tithes lost on the winds of chance. Petitioner lords nagged the Allirian Council, demanding recompense for these losses. With it came a summons for the Compte d' Cassienda, and an ordinance to deliver punishment upon those responsible for this disruption in courtly affairs. The clerks inked it in clear hand, ensuring no quarter for capitulation. A warrant for death, and the Compte its deputy. They made haste in declaring him judge, juror, and executioner all.
Casio rode, face obscured behind the visor of his carapace of burning dawn. The layered shell painted the pale of him black, leaving only a set of golden eyes to apprise the land before him; but they were turned to the sky, fixed on the sun that yet seared him, etching deep lines in flesh that struggled to mend even amidst the assault. Likely, his handlers thought themselves cleverly cruel in forcing his march on the dayward side of things. He smiled, basking in the radiance of the noon's wicked gaze. Ringed by a retinue of heavy cavalry that stepped light just shy of his mount's trot, he maintained a smooth pace on their journey ever southward.
Only one man of his party dared keep direct company with him. A well-oiled individual of distinctive character. One of the council's sworn swords, a knight by all shapes of the word if not in form. With a brow slick with sweat and a loose tunic doing little to conceal the rolls of fat about his paunch, the man adopted an incessant natter through the day. A fixture of the council, he seemed resolute in making misery of the Compte's time.
"Huntress," Casio said, calling past his entourage to the shape of a woman accompanying them. The councilman's retainer pulled away, jaw snapping shut and a finger riding the length of his saddle's pommel. Casio flicked at his reigns, adopting a play of ignorance to the man's insolence.
"Your dossier boasted a measure of familiarity with the region, which informed the terms of our contract. You will tell me: what manner of folk call the hamlet of Belfalus home? What reason have they to harbor their lord's murderer?"
The farm, situated on the outskirts of the hamlet of Belfalus which marked itself near the southern peninsula of the Allir Reach on most modern maps (much to the frustration of certain cartographers who prefer its locale specified as bayou-side of the Allir coastal lowland), boasted a number of fenced, open fields and pasture for livestock. Under its wide purview, with consideration for the families working the land, it occasioned notice for the dogs to perk at distant noise. They were familiar with the neighbors, no strangers to the infrequent foot traffic that meandered past or the steady clop of hoovebeat and wagontread. Indeed, the Elder Bjorn often bemoaned the gentle hearts of his pets—how worthless they were in dissuading unwanted guests! Yet did they stir on this particular moonless eve.
The leathery farmer lit a candle and donned his slippers, fastening a carving knife to his belt and gripping the haft of his walking stick to chest. He swallowed hard before nudging the door open, bumbling his first step onto the porch. The missus and younger kids remained indoors, peering out at him from the windows, curiosity and apprehension gluing them to his back.
"Damn mutts," he said, licking his lips as the wooden deck creaked beneath his weight, "best not be jumping at shadows, you hear?" He made for the fields, the rumble of hostile growling his primary guide, eyes flicking wildly whenever a wilted stalk of barley swished in the evening breeze. Otherwise, silence accompanied his survey, a shiver that iced his spine.
One of his sons had left shortly after dinner, hedging about some thatch needing mending at the hamlet. The Elder Bjorn had thought the boy coy, playing sly in cover of a tryst with one of the cobbler's kids. Perhaps the boy made it back early, kicked a rock to rattle the dogs' nerves. He lost himself in such fancies, finding it preferable to the dread that whispered from perception's edge.
A smell broke his reverie: unwashed flesh, rotted leather, musky refuse. The farmer's breath hitched in his throat, his dog barked sharp. A man lay in a heap before him, crumpled in the fields, the tangle of his limbs forming a near perfect ring in the browning grass. The Eldest Bjorn dropped his walking stick and rushed to kneel before the man, shouting back to the house for the boys to come help carry him in.
They found a beggar in their fields. The man was a shamble of skin and bone, flesh drawn taut over chest and stomach. A skein of matted hair and a tri-colored beard that could not decide if it wished to be brown, or gray, or black occluded a pair of hollowed cheeks and purpled eyes. Swathed in frailty, bruises welted up along the lank length of him, his legs appearing scarce capable of supporting what little weight he had. More concerning, the back of his head was split, a wicked gash from when he collapsed, and even among the rotted cloth he reeked thick of blood.
In the ensuant hours, the Bjorns bathed and dressed the man's wounds, patching up a great many cuts and swollen feet in an effort to provide some meager comfort. They threw a kettle over the hearth, heated bone broth and tea and warmed milk for him to drink; they cradled his head and aided him in getting down this unconscious meal. Only in the morning did he wake, speech slurred with a foreign kiss upon his tongue. Unable to make sense of his speech, and he incapable of scraping meaning from the depths of his broken skull, their conversation was left in much the same tatters as the beggar had arrived.
Another day passed before he managed to thank them. This he did profusely, entreating them to let him rise and be off once more into the wilds. This they could not allow.
Thus did the beggar winter with the family, regaining some small vitality through the watery broth and hard bread leavened with wood dust they offered him. Meats and cheeses he refused, insisting with passioned sincerity that they pay little mind to his presence. Their kindness warmed him plenty, he'd say, and he could not beggar more than an honest day's equity. Through it all, he gave high praise to their hospitality, admitting one snowed in morning that he truly felt a kinship with the farmers. He cracked a hesitant, bashful smile then, and it bled true beauty onto his once dirtied face. With the year's first thaw, he shaved that hideous beard and let the Elder Bjorn shear his unkempt hair (after washing it thoroughly in lye and rinsing it to a semblance of cleanliness).
When spring harried drought and disease to the farm, the beggar began to question why.
A magistrate dead, the Baron of Chain's in a fury; three taxmen gone, tithes lost on the winds of chance. Petitioner lords nagged the Allirian Council, demanding recompense for these losses. With it came a summons for the Compte d' Cassienda, and an ordinance to deliver punishment upon those responsible for this disruption in courtly affairs. The clerks inked it in clear hand, ensuring no quarter for capitulation. A warrant for death, and the Compte its deputy. They made haste in declaring him judge, juror, and executioner all.
Casio rode, face obscured behind the visor of his carapace of burning dawn. The layered shell painted the pale of him black, leaving only a set of golden eyes to apprise the land before him; but they were turned to the sky, fixed on the sun that yet seared him, etching deep lines in flesh that struggled to mend even amidst the assault. Likely, his handlers thought themselves cleverly cruel in forcing his march on the dayward side of things. He smiled, basking in the radiance of the noon's wicked gaze. Ringed by a retinue of heavy cavalry that stepped light just shy of his mount's trot, he maintained a smooth pace on their journey ever southward.
Only one man of his party dared keep direct company with him. A well-oiled individual of distinctive character. One of the council's sworn swords, a knight by all shapes of the word if not in form. With a brow slick with sweat and a loose tunic doing little to conceal the rolls of fat about his paunch, the man adopted an incessant natter through the day. A fixture of the council, he seemed resolute in making misery of the Compte's time.
"Huntress," Casio said, calling past his entourage to the shape of a woman accompanying them. The councilman's retainer pulled away, jaw snapping shut and a finger riding the length of his saddle's pommel. Casio flicked at his reigns, adopting a play of ignorance to the man's insolence.
"Your dossier boasted a measure of familiarity with the region, which informed the terms of our contract. You will tell me: what manner of folk call the hamlet of Belfalus home? What reason have they to harbor their lord's murderer?"
